Sealing His Fate
by Ciya
Summary: AU tag to 'The Dark Side Of the Moon'. What could have happened if the gunshots had been reported.


_I was kinda disappointed that there weren't any sirens blaring in the background when the boys woke up after Joshua beamed them back into their bodies. I really wanted some law enforcement to have the crap scared out of them so out pops this tale of intrigue and poptarts…okay, so a roving herd of bassalopes ate the poptarts and the intrigue is sorely lacking but it's still a tale. Plus I needed an explanation as to why Sam's right hand moved from being curled up on the pillow to being out of frame - it was very naughty of the continuity people not to make Jared put his hand back where it was supposed to be._

**Sealing His Fate**

The smell of blood and gunpowder was almost overwhelming in the small motel room. Dean Winchester's last words ran through Roy's head as he lowered his shotgun. Pulling his eyes from Dean's fixed stare, he watched Walt walk over to the far side of the younger Winchester's bed.

Walt glared at the mortal remains of Sam Winchester, a sound of disgust rose from his throat at the look of innocence still present on the young man's face. He tampered down the urge to spit on him, he'd watched CSI after all, instead he reached down and picked Sam's right wrist up off the pillow. His searching fingertips found no pulse and a smile of satisfaction crossed his face. The two loads of buckshot had done their job of destroying the traitor's heart and lungs as thoroughly as they had shredded the blue and white plaid shirt; he dropped the lifeless arm back onto the bed. Hank had been right after all; the possibility he'd blamed a handy person for his best friend's death at the hands of demons instead of admitting his friend had screwed up, had been at the back of Walt's mind. That is, until the guilty look on Sam's face gave him away along with his pleading for Walt to listen to his explanation…as if there could be any way to explain away starting the fucking APOCALYPSE!!…sealed his fate and by extension, his brother's. "Come on Roy," he said walking back to pick up the spent shell casings, "we need to bug-out before the cops get here."

"Yeah, Walt, yeah," he replied looking back at Dean. "Sorry man, but you should have taken him out yourself," he muttered before turning away and following his partner out the door.

_snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsn_

"What do you have Sergeant Arana?" the grizzle-haired Detective Dale Tennyson asked as he walked into the busy crime scene.

"The motel manager reported hearing shots fired and saw two men carrying rifles and wearing ski masks run from this end of the motel. Looking through the window, my partner and I observed two men lying unmoving on the beds. The motel manager let us into the room after we receive no answer to our knocking. Upon entering we could see the men were covered in blood, a Colt nineteen-eleven lay on the floor to the right of the far bed and a loaded clip was lying about five feet to the left of the gun's location. We secured the scene, checked the men for signs of life then called the coroner and CSIs. When the CSIs were done photographing the Colt, I cleared it, finding one round in the chamber."

Nodding, Tennyson strode over to the nearest bed and watched as the coroner assessed the body of a fully dressed, very tall young man. He was spread out on his back, head facing to his left with one hand curled up on a pillow near it and the other hanging off the bed. "Claire."

The coroner, whose curly black hair was barely kept in check by a hair-band, looked up and smiled, "Dale, nice to see you again."

"You too. I thought you were skipping field work this rotation."

"I was, but Payne had to have an emergency appendectomy, so I'm taking his rotation while he recuperates," she replied.

"Poor guy." He crouched down on the opposite side of the bed. "What have you found?"

The smile left her face and Claire grew serious, "caucasian male, mid-twenties, shotgun blast to the chest." Tennyson watched as Claire gently probed the blood soaked shirt; a coppery smell wafted up as she teased back bits of shredded plaid and grey fabric. "He was shot twice at very close range and by the looks of the blood splatter, I'd say he was sitting up, facing his killer."

"Damn, kid probably saw it coming," he shook his head, the overpowering fear the kid almost certainly felt before he died, was hard to contemplate. "Can you give me an approximate time of death?" he asked standing back up to take a closer look at the blood splatter on the headboard and wall.

"They were both still quite warm when I arrived," she checked her watch, "forty-five minutes ago. At that time their liver temps were ninety-seven point nine and ninety-seven point six respectively, so they'd been dead about forty minutes…an hour tops."

"Arana, what time where the gunshots reported?"

"Oh six twenty-two."

"About an hour and a half ago then," he muttered under his breath. Pulling on a pair of rubber gloves Tennyson poked at the beer cans littered across the shelf running behind the beds. "Claire, any defensive wounds?"

Manipulating the dead man's arms and hands, she checked them over for any obvious wounds. "None that I can see. There's some blood spray along his thumbs and forefingers." Opening the curled up fingers she checked the palm and back of one hand then the other, "the backs of both hands are liberally sprayed yet there's only a minute amount on his palms."

"So his hands were up. Could be a robbery or drug deal gone bad." He counted the number of beer cans and liquor bottles on the bedside table and shelf then muttered quietly to himself, "awful lot of empties." Turning back to Claire, he inquired, "could you add a blood alcohol level to your tox screens?"

"Way ahead of you there Dale," Claire grinned, "already checked the box."

"Sure you don't want my job?"

"Naw. Too many breathing people."

He laughed, "true." Tennyson turned towards the second body, "what about this one?" he asked, looking over another tall, fully dressed male body. He was also spread out on his back, face up this time, his empty green eyes open and staring at the ceiling, both arms out at his sides, one of which was lying against the bedside table, with one leg on and the other leg off the mattress.

Claire stood up and walked over to the farther bed. "Caucasian male, late twenties, a shotgun was used twice on him also. Except this time the shooter was farther away."

"So two shooters or the same one shot him," he turned and pointed at the younger man's body, "then shot him," he turned back to the body in front of him.

"Look at his positioning," she swept her hand back and forth following the placement of his legs. "The way his body is positioned if he saw the younger guy get shot Dale, why didn't he jump the shooter or move into a more defensive posture? It's like he sat there waiting for whomever it was to shoot him."

"Maybe he didn't expect to get shot, he got shot first then the kid or there was a fourth person in the room preventing him from defending himself," Tennyson surmised.

"I don't…HOLY SHIT!" Claire screamed when the younger man's corpse suddenly drew in a gasping breath and sat up. Tennyson and the other officers in the room drew their guns, pointing them at the man who just minutes ago was a slowly stiffening corpse and now was breathing hard with a hand pressed to his bloody chest. Tennyson had just opened his mouth to demand answers when the second corpse sat up with a gasping breath. Swinging his gun towards the second man, he watched as the two men looked down at themselves then at each other in a bewildered fashion.

Sam breathed fast, a confused look on his face as he stared down at his bloody, shredded shirt. Being told he'd been shot was a lot different than seeing - and feeling - the evidence himself, he thought as his fingers gently touched his painfully stinging chest. He heard Dean gasp for breath and glanced up in time to see him sit up, holding a hand to his bloody abdomen. "Dean, you all right?" he asked breathlessly.

"Define 'all right' Sammy," he replied, looking down at his bloody t-shirt and pressing his hand against his throbbing abdomen than his eyes slid over to his dazed brother, who was staring at his own chest in disbelief. Coughing, Dean looked up then jumped back; reflexively reaching out to grab his brother and shove the kid behind him when he saw the guns pointed at them. "Sam!"

"Huh? Oh geez!" Sam looked up at the sharp sound of his brother's voice than jumped back, wincing as the movement sent pain shooting through his deeply bruised chest muscles. He held a shaky blood stained hand up and yelled, "NO!" reaching out for Dean as the tall man aimed his gun first at Dean then at him.

"WHAT'S HAPPENING? HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE? THEY WERE DEAD! DALE, THEY WERE DEAD!" a black haired woman shrieked while pressing herself further back into the far wall.

"Arana call an ambulance! You two…explain yourselves! NOW!" he barked out in a higher pitched voice than he intended.

Dean took his eyes off the tall cop, the uniforms of the other men in the room finally registering in his brain, glanced down at his shirt than over at Sam then back. "Uh…" His brother's rough breathing and groan of pain as he fell back onto his bed had Dean up on his feet and moving before his body could inform him that to do so, was ill advised. He discovered this when his legs promptly gave out from under him and he had to catch himself on edge of Sam's bed before did a face plant. Which would have been all good and fine if the movement hadn't jarred his tender stomach muscles, causing him to curl into himself with a groan of his own. "Sammy?"

His lungs felt like they were in a vice that every time he exhaled, the vice got tighter until he couldn't draw in another breath and he fell back onto the bed. Pulling his knees up, he rolled over and curled up into a ball. '_What is it with angels and their half-assed healing?'_ Sam thought just before passing out.

_snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsn_

"What in the hell do you mean 'they aren't in their room'?" Tennyson demanded, glaring with bugged out eyes at the man assigned to guard Dean and Sam Hauer while they were in the hospital. "They were in there fifteen minutes ago!" he yelled making a sweeping motion with his arm at the empty room.

The guard stood ramrod straight, trying not to flinch when spittle sprayed his face. "I don't know what to tell you sir. The Hauer's were in there when the doctor and nurse left the room; I saw them with my own eyes. No one has entered or left since."

_snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsn_

The cops failed to have the phone in the hospital room disconnected and five seconds after Dean had contacted Castiel, the angel appeared and beamed them to a nondescript motel room two states way, the Winchesters passing out almost upon arrival. Awakening first, Dean noticed that Castiel had piled their gear into a corner of the room. Worried about his car he got up and stumbled over to the window to find the Impala parked haphazardly in the parking spot outside their room. "Need to teach him how to park," Dean muttered under his breath. Walking over to the jumbled pile of bags, he noticed Sam rubbing his bleary eyes and yawning. "I got first dibs on the shower," he said, swallowing a small groan as he bent over to dig clean clothes out of his duffel.

"Dean are we going to talk about it?"

Dean stood up but didn't turn around. "About what Sam?"

"Heaven. Joshua. God?" Sam answered, wincing slightly as he sat up.

"There's nothing to talk about," he replied turning to face his brother, "we're on our own Sammy. Winchester normal, all fucked up." Dean strode into the bathroom and shut the door, cutting off the sound of Sam's protest.

_snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsn_

Castiel stood near the room's dividing screen, an unhappy look on his face. "Maybe…maybe Joshua was lying."

Sam turned from the sink in the small alcove set between the bathroom and the closet. "I don't think he was, Cas. I'm sorry," he said ruefully.

His posture slumping the angel headed for the door, stopping he looked up towards the ceiling without actually seeing it and said in a pissed off tone of voice, "you son-of-a-bitch. I believed in…" Castiel turned in Dean's direction and took a few steps towards him, "I don't need this anymore," he pulled something out of the pocket of his trench coat and tossed it at the elder Winchester, who caught it neatly. "It's worthless," he finished with a dejected slump to his shoulders as he turned back towards the motel room door.

Dean opened his hand and the amulet swung freely on its leather cord, shining in the light.

Sam started in Castiel's direction, "Cas wait," and let out an irritated huff as the angel ignores him and disappears with the sound of rustling wings. The younger Winchester continues into the main room and tosses his Dopp kit at his bed, not caring where it lands. Frustrated, he turns to his brother, "we find another way. We can still stop all this Dean."

"How?" Dean replies in a tired, dejected voice while looking at his amulet, his unspoken hope of Castiel finding God with it destroyed by the two words resonating through his head - _back off_.

"I don' know," he admits, "but we'll find it." Sam filled his voice with every ounce of determination he has knowing he needed to combat the psychological beat down Zachariah had executed on his big brother…and him. "You and me. We'll find it."

Dean kept his eyes on Sam's determined face for a few seconds before dropping them down to the amulet swinging from his fingers. -_Back off-_ Grabbing his duffel he walks to the motel room door, stopping, he let the amulet hang from his fingertips over the trashcan next to the door. -_Back off_- His decision made, he relaxes his fingers, letting the necklace drop. Without a backward glance, he opens the door and walks out to the Impala.

Sorrowful, Sam watches Dean walk out the door. There's a pain in his chest that isn't part of the remaining effects from being shot with two loads of double-ought buck. He gathers his few remaining possessions off the bed and stuffs them into his duffel before Dean starts yelling for him to 'get the lead out'. Slinging the weapons bag over his shoulder he stops by the trashcan; looking down he can see the mellow glint of gold peeking out from under some old candy wrappers and used -ick- tissues. Resolute, he bends down and snatches the amulet out of the trash and smoothly slips the leather cord over his head, tucking the pendant under his t-shirt before heading out the door. Angels be damned, Sam Winchester isn't going to give up on or let go, of his brother.

_**FIN**_


End file.
